


While You Were Gone

by Dead_walking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Learning to move on, Post Reinbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_walking/pseuds/Dead_walking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter eventually turns into Spring and somewhere in between, John and Lestrade learn that life goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While You Were Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Hints at the events of "The Reichenbach Fall" but not very spoilerish.
> 
> Comments make me happy :)

**I**

John taps his pen against his desk. He matches the beat to the ticking of the clock; five full revolutions. A new record. The medical file Sarah has asked him to review is still resting under his coffee mug. He has no doubt he can keep the beat for three more revolutions but saves the challenge for another day. Instead, John pulls the folder towards him, only half interested in the details.

Not for the first time, John misses the rain. The rhythmic pattern against the window has a calming effect on the doctor. Maybe because he is unaccustomed to the silence. There was always something in the background: the light clinking of test tubes, shuffling paper, the clicking of a keyboard. Even when it was quiet, even when that quiet stretched out for weeks at a time, there was something. Those were days when John longed for silence; how very silly he used to be. The ticking of the clock will have to do. John opens the file because interest or no, he has an obligation to Sarah and his job.

Before he can review the file, there is a knock on his door. Sarah stands in the doorway, neither fully in or out of his office. "Your four o' clock cancelled," she says, pressing against the door frame. "Guess you have the afternoon off."

There used to be a time when she would have taken the opportunity to ask John out for tea. There was also a time when John would have accepted because being with someone beat spending the afternoon alone. His beliefs have changed. Sarah shifts at the door, possibly waiting for some kind of invitation, more likely, debating whether she should offer him the name of a new film he should treat himself to. Anything to get him out of this rut, he imagines her thinking. Knowing better, Sarah taps on the door and leaves.

John can practically hear Harry's sigh, knowing that yet again, he chose to spend his time alone. John knows that going out for tea and dinner dates is what people do; normal people anyway. The moment can't be pinpointed but John wagers that he lost the right to claim any associated with that lot. That moment could have been the first time he pulled the trigger since his deployment from Afghanistan, maybe it was the night he was strapped to a vest of Semtex. Possibly, the shift was a more subtle; when his feet started feeling out of sync with the world, or at least the mid-morning traffic, or when he adapted to the stride of long legs walking down overlooked streets of London.

"That's enough of that," John says quietly with a shake of his head; as if the action will push the thoughts out of his mind all together. There is little point in dwelling in a life that is no longer his own. His life can now be defined by medical charts and manila folders needing his review. In accordance with, John once again turns his attention back to the folder.

Francis Von Rosthorn. Twenty six. Suffering from migraines that have not responded to medication. No family condition and the CAT scan came back normal.

"Probably a nutritional deficit," he mumbles and drops the folder back on his desk. After scribbling a note to order more blood tests, he decides to drop off the paperwork on his way out of the office.

Right. Out. Except that he doesn't have anywhere in particular to go. Mrs. Hudson always appreciates when he pops in for tea but he doesn't have much to say and always feels obligated to stay longer than he would like. He could always try to sneak up the stairs but doing so always makes him feel dirty. It's Tuesday, he thinks, and Mrs. Hudson always has an early supper with Mrs. Lowsley on Tuesdays; John can avoid her all together if he occupies himself for another hour or so. With a promise to see her at the week's end, he busies himself reorganizing his tools, a habit that has become far too habitual.

His organization is disturbed by the buzz of his mobile. A welcome noise, even though he lets half his texts go unanswered.

Murder at 400 Westbourne Terrace. Could use an extra pair of eyes.  -GL

John raises his eye brows at the message. A text from Lestrade is hardly uncommon, but he has never requested John at a crime scene. Without hesitation, John replies: Leaving now. A small (and easily ignorable) part of his mind tells him that he should wait; to think everything through before he acts. His body, however, is already in motion, easily leaving behind his jumper as he heads out of his office. John doesn't try to ignore the fact that his shoulders hold themselves higher as he walks out of the clinic; easily reclaiming the confidence that he has discarded long ago.

It's only after John is settled in the back of his cab when doubt sets in. Because it's then that John realizes that he is alone. Alone and heading towards a crime scene. There is a reason Lestrade hasn't requested him at a scene. The most obvious being that his crime scenes have been monitored since, well, previous events. The second being that, like Lestrade, John had only been a backboard to bounce ideas off of. It had never been John who put the pieces together. That role was reserved for someone else.

There isn't much time to dwell on his doubt, as ten minutes later, John is ducking under yellow tape. He is almost surprised at the fluidity of the motion. Even after a prolonged absence, everything is still second nature. Suddenly, a hesitance that he hasn't felt since he first found himself on a crime scene settles in his chest. That was three years ago. Sometime between then and now, John thought he found his place; walked on knowing his role, took pride in that role. That role, however, has been striped from him, leaving him questioning how he should proceed. Muscle memory guides him onward until he is standing next to the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade puts his hand on John's shoulder as he approaches, "Doctor Watson," he says, emphasizing the word doctor. "Just the man I need."

Donovan gives him a weary smile. "John."

John's smile is forced, the tight smile he presents when dealing with someone who doesn't like him. To be fair, it probably isn't him at all, but the association that comes along with him. Two years worth of memories that everyone would like to forget. "Always willing to help," John replies, trying to keep his confusion in check.

Lestrade claims he needs John's medical experience but even the most novice detective on the scene can see through the bollocks. The cause of death is simple: blunt trauma to the left side of the head. No need to bring an outsider onto the scene. The team give him pointed stares, their concern obvious: not with this again, haven't you learned from your mistakes. Lestrade ignores the silent warnings. The excuse is good enough to allow John access to the body and it appears that Lestrade fully intends to follow through with that action.

Donovan taps a clipboard against her palm. "Twenty minutes," she says in in a bizarre role reversal with Lestrade, "before I call this in." Even John can tell that it's an empty threat.

Lestrade tilts his head in the direction of the body, "Well, we better get on with it, then."

The DI heads towards the victim. John is quick to follow, making sure to keep a step or two behind. The action is achingly familiar (only he should be following two people instead of one). Always had my place, he thinks. What exactly is his place when the man who linked him to this world is no longer here? Dropping the thought, John picks up his pace until he is walking in unison with the DI. His brain struggles to process the new arrangement. Every few steps, he has to stop himself from looking for the silhouette of a dark figure.

John counts it as a small miracle that he gets to the victim without faltering. He crosses his arms in an attempt to seem natural and to fight off the anxiety that is quickly making his heart beat faster. Without instruction, John slowly walks around the body, observing both the woman and anything that might stand out around her. Lestrade holds back, content to allow the doctor a few minutes of uninterrupted observation. A silence settles over them as John moves around the scene. He wavers when he realizes that both he and Lestrade are waiting for a voice that will not come.

As though he senses John's distress, Lestrade takes control of the situation: "Maria Borelli; found by a boy and his father this morning," Lestrade explains. "Preliminary reports indicate the cause of death is due to blunt trauma to the head. The thing is-"

"That's not the cause of death," John finishes. He crouches closer to the body. Minimal swelling to the outer edges of the wound, superficial staining; everything points to a postmortem wound. "This was done after she died," said as a fact.

"Now why would someone do that?" Lestrade asks, almost as though he is guiding John to a specific conclusion.

"Could have happened when they," John pauses, "dropped her off here." John's shoulders relax as he becomes more absorbed with the scene in front of him. There would be time to focus on his anxiety later.

"Could have," Lestrade says doubtfully. There is a rigidness in the DI's stance that says he has already thrown out that theory.

So what is John missing? John tries to apply what he has learned from years of quiet watching but he still winds up at a dead end. He can almost hear an exasperated sigh at his inability to see what is right in front of him (John always missed the big pieces, the ones that actually mattered). Then it hits him, "The wound isn't deep enough to have killed her."

Lestrade joins John next to the body. "And there is no other sign of struggle." He talks quickly, John clearly broaching the right topic.

"Then what-"

With a gloved hand, Lestrade points to her arm, "take a look at these." Six track marks (so out of place, John thinks) dot her skin. "All relatively fresh."

"Drugs?" John asks but something else steals his attention. Something -burned?\- onto her forearm. With a slight tilt of his head, John looks closer. It's a simple pattern, a tree surrounded by a circle. "What's that?" he asks, pointing to the mark.

Lestrade grins but it's void of any emotion. "Initial guess: a symbol connecting her to a local drug dealer. Narcotics has been following it for a few months now; methamphetamine dealer - not the biggest fish in that department. Stamps a similar symbol onto his bags. She most have crossed him and he dumped her here with his brand as a warning to anyone else thinking of doing the same thing."

John glances at Lestrade. "But you don't think he's your murderer."

"I'm not saying he isn't," Lestrade admits. "I'm just saying that it's a lovely way of throwing the Yard off of your tracks."

"But the marks-" The dots could very well connect her to the dealer. Careful not to touch the victim, John inspects her arm. "Wait," he says, taking a closer look. Six marks, all relatively fresh. John thinks back to silent moments in Baker street when he studied old scars on pale skin. There is no trace of scars on the victim's arm; no history with this particular drug. "That doesn't make sense."

Picking up on John's train of thought, Lestrade adds: "No other sign of being a habitual user," Lestrade murmurs, "just look at her, John," he says in an eerie echo of something John would have heard long ago, "she wasn't a junkie."

The facts are there: casual spring dress, nice sandals - this was a woman prepared to enjoy a nice spring day after a grueling winter, not someone fiending for her next fix. That's only skimming the surface, John knows he has to go deeper. Expensive jewelry, manicured nails, John wouldn't be surprised to find a tube of hand crème in her purse. She wouldn't have bothered to take care of herself if she was a junkie. Experimented-maybe, but it strikes John as improbable that a row with her dealer was the cause of her turning up here.

"What do the others make of all this?" John glances at the rest of the team. They are huddled together as they always were, impatiently waiting to take over. Even from seven meters away, John can feel their apprehension. He imagines everyone counting down the seconds until he is escorted off of the scene (and out of their minds). John wonders how many of them know his history but it's a silly thought; of course they all know.

The muscles in Lestrade's mouth constrict. "They're taking the bait. Going to pursue the dealer. Almost treating it as a closed case already." His shoulder's relax after a moment. "Can't really blame them for it. "

John can hear his frustration. Lestrade is a competent man. He certainly didn't attain his position as DI by chance. It takes more than knowing a consulting detective to work your way up the ladder. John would wager that it takes years of experience and a brilliant intuition, all of which Lestrade possesses. If Lestrade's intuition is guiding him in a certain direction, John is certainly going to follow.

"Any idea of who might have done it?"

Lestrade shakes his head, "No idea. But I reckon a test to see what chemicals are in her body will bring us a step closer." There it is, Lestrade's working hypothesis. Yes, drugs were to blame for this woman's death, but they weren't drugs she willingly chose to put in her body. Lestrade slides his hands into his pocket. "They don't think you should be here," the DI admits after a few minutes.

"Right," John slightly hesitates before continuing, "why am I here?" John is hardly the brightest person but he knows well enough that Lestrade doesn't need him; not even for medical advice.

Lestrade clears his throat, a bit embarrassed. "Just wanted a second opinion." He keeps his gaze focused on the woman but he is not really seeing her; as though he is lost in a memory.

There is a weight in Lestrade's voice that John doesn't want to examine, so he offers the DI a nod. Shifting his weight from one side to the other, he decides that returning to the case is a better option than lingering in this silence. "The marking" he says, "I've seen it before-" he trails off, knowing he can't quite remember where he saw it.

There was a time when they would have already moved off the scene by now. A quick glance and excited words and a taxi would be hailed to the next clue. Things are slower now, not just at the crime scene. John takes a long, practiced breath and leaves the thoughts for another day. He needs to focus. The marking, what is particular about it? Nothing really - he could have seen it anywhere.

"All right boys," Donovan says walking towards them, "that's quite enough." Then, turning to Lestrade, "Sir?" She hesitates but Lestrade nods, signaling the end of his private investigation with John. "All yours sergeant."

John and Lestrade stand together as the team moves in. Eventually, John is forced to take a few steps back and Lestrade moves with him. John's not fooled into thinking he has done anything incredible; then again, he was never the useful one in the equation. Always standing on the sidelines, only offering silent encouragement. It's a small comfort when he realizes that despite the new arrangement, his role is still the same -John is still just a reassuring presence. Still, it's enough for John to feel useful. Yes, it's silly but John almost feels complete.

  
**II**

The waiting room in the clinic is busier than John has seen it in weeks. The beginning of Spring can only mean allergies and sinus infections and people who simply need to take vitamin tablets and spend the weekend in bed. Three days have passed since he joined Lestrade on the crime scene and the DI has yet to say anything about the case. Not for the first time since their parting, John finds himself checking his mobile to see if he missed any messages. His inbox is empty.

John ducks away into break room, mindful to close the door behind him. With a crowded waiting room and being two doctors understaffed, it's a sure bet that he won't be bothered. It will only buy him a few minutes of peace but he fully intends on utilizing those minutes. By all rights, John should be focused on Kyle Myca who is currently waiting for him in his office. His mind however, has decided to focus on the symbol burned onto the victim. He hits the tip of his pen against the counter, racking his brain for any information he can recall about the design.

Every time he hears footsteps in the hallway, he grips the edge of the counter in anticipation. Sarah has a certain knack for knowing when John is distracted. Sometimes, John thinks he should have warned Sarah about that during their first interview: easily side tracked by compelling crimes. Sarah had warned him that the job was simple, slow even. Years ago, John was convinced slow was exactly what he needed. He is a smarter man these days. Though he often wonders whether the John who liked the idea of slow would recognize the man John is today. Somehow, he doesn't think he would. It's not something that he regrets.

It should worry him how easily he pushes aside a patient for a crime, but it doesn't. He will get to Mr. Myca is a moment. Right now, John needs to focus on the marking. He would have to had seen the image of the tree often enough to be familiar with it but the lack of recognitionmeans that it's not from a place John frequently inhabits. Somewhere close, then. A location he passes but never really pays any mind to. He sets about making a plan to visit all the places he frequently inhabits.

He startles when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns to see a frustrated Sarah standing behind him. "Mr. Myca has been waiting for twenty minutes," she says, straining to sound patient. She is always patient. "We're too busy for you to be sneaking off into the break room, John."

The look at her face makes John feel momentarily guilty. "You're right," he says. "Sorry," John says offering her an apologetic smile.

Unexpectedly, she gently squeezes his arm. "Something's different about you," she says carefully. "It's something in your eyes. You look energized-"she pauses as if to pick the right word, "refreshed."

John's eyes widen at the word. Refreshed. "Of course," he says with a bit more enthusiasm than the situation warrants. He ignores Sarah's perplexed look. "That's it. He was playing a game after all- testing the Yard." Without explaining John rushes towards the door. The smaller but more sensible side of John stops him before he leaves. "I'm sorry," he repeats again, only this time, for another reason entirely, "there's something I-I've got to go."

John takes out his mobile to text Lestrade before running out of the clinic.

  


  
**III**

It had occurred to John that Lestrade is very much like him. Perhaps John should have realized it sooner. Maybe he did, but he was too busy focusing on something - someone \- else. They are simple men, really. Both prefer a quiet pub to the more populated ones, a plate of chips and an Aresnal match on the Telly. It's enough of a distraction for when the conversations lull, but a distraction they can share.

The adrenaline of making a (possible) connection to the murder has been replaced with the calm of an empty pub. It's a common routine; fit in between investigations and house calls. They are more quiet than usual today, possibly because they are both going over the facts of the crime scene, trying to fit the pieces together.

Lestrade lazily traces the brim of his pint. "The Chelsea Day Spa," he repeats for the fourth time, slowly processing the information.

John nods. "Pass it on my way to Waitrose. Just opened a month or two ago. Probably a bit of a long shot but it's the same pine tree; circle and all."

"Worth stopping by," Lestrade says. He has one hand resting on the chair next to him; the picture of a detective sure he is narrowing in on his man. It's vaguely reminiscent of a scene John has witnessed in Baker Street during early mornings or late nights; when the final deduction had been made and all there was to do was wait for a reasonable hour to make the arrest.

They fall back into a contemplative silence. Even with the silence, John feels at ease with Lestrade - Greg. Always does. Everyone talks to John like he's glass; use the wrong tone and he will shatter. Greg puts a beer in front of him and tells him to buck up. He doesn't tell John to talk about it, he never even asked if he wanted to.

"I miss that," John says. It's so terribly honest. "The clinic has its moments but so many days are filled with ear infections and bloody colds, it's well-" his sentence disappears into a sip of his beer.

Greg rubs his thumb along the worn corner of the table. He presses harder before he speaks, "it was good having you there." He leaves it at that.

The DI leans too much into the shadow and it makes him look tired (has his divorce finalized, John hasn't even asked) and John certainly feels so. The transformation has to come; from crime scene consultant back to gentle Doctor Watson. Tomorrow, Lisa Harper is coming for her follow up and Robert Greenly moved his two o'clock to four. He will ask questions and write down notes, somewhere in between he will try to convince himself that what he is doing is of importance but nothing compares, nothing will ever compare to the feeling of these past few days- how natural everything felt.

"It's the bloody monotony," Greg once said. "It creeps up on you." He was still on suspension then. Those were still days of: How could you  and he trusted youand on particularly bad days, you basically helped dig his grave.

Somehow, Greg managed to drag John out of the flat he was staying in to a rundown cafe. Something about misery and company but John wasn't keen on the latter. John doesn't think that he stayed for his whole cup of tea. It didn't take long for John to realized that Greg had a knack for healing. Not the way john healed; Greg dug himself in deep, healed from the inside out. John reckons that is what got him through his darker days of acquaintance with Sherlock, he supposes that is why he stayed. That is probably also the reason he insisted that John meet with him until it turned into a genuine friendship. Maybe it's gloating but John doesn't think he was the only one who needed help back then.

"Everyone needs someone," Greg had also said, "and I gather we're the only ones who understand."

John bets they are the only ones who still do.

The DI pushes himself foreword, effectively capturing John's attention in the process. "Oh, come off it," he says in gentle annoyance. John has to admit, Greg has become a natural at reading him. "Let's try to go one more week without you falling into one of your moods, eh?"

There is another pause but the tension has disappeared. Alleviating tension is another task that comes so easily to the DI. "I suppose I can manage a few more days." John means it.

The tables around them empty and fill. They don't speak for a full round and John buys the next two. Greg leans back in his chair, focusing outside and John focuses on the DI. They don't talk about what they are thinking about even though they are thinking about the same thing. There is nothing left to say.

This had also become routine.

"Last one?" Greg asks but walks to the bar before John can reply.

John always has one more drink than he ought to because it helps him hold on to the fleeting feeling that everything is back to normal. Just him and Lestrade sharing a drink and breathing. It's relieving, in a way this therapist would probably call unhealthy, that while some things in his life changed, some remain the same. These moments always come in spurts and only with Greg. John still isn't ready to admit just how much he needs this.

John can feel the warmth of the sun coming through the window. Mixed with the laziness left behind from an adrenaline high makes John's guard slip. That's when John says it; he finally says his name: "Sherlock would have had a fit five minutes into the scene."

A degree of panic settles in the pit of his stomach. Even Lestrade pauses at the mention of Sherlock's name. Silent rules have guided their friendship and now that one has been breached, both men take a second to adjust.

Lestrade makes the first move: "If you two are done playing at detectives, there is a murder to solve," he mimics to the best of his ability.

A peculiar thing happens then, John smiles; at the comment itself, at the thought of the man, of the picture forming in his head- narrow eyes and a sigh that didn't sound as frustrated as Sherlock probably intended. The panic dissipates and he lets out a sigh of relief. Because honestly, John has been living without his best friend for far too long now. So, he decides to change that. He finally decides to talk about Sherlock Holmes.

John raises his glass. "Cheer," he softly salutes and Greg imitates his action.

"Who knows, maybe he would have been proud of us so far," Lestrade says with more than a touch of sarcasm. "Of course, he would never have admitted it, would he?"

"No," John hears himself say, "he wouldn't."

No, Sherlock wouldn't have outwardly said anything, it was just the way the man worked. During his friendship with Sherlock, John had learned to read between the lines; easily picking apart sentences until only the genuine meaning remained. When there were no words to pick apart, and there often were not, Sherlock's feelings would manifest themselves in one way or another, they always did; the trick was knowing how to read them.

When the pints are empty, Greg taps his fingers on the table. "So, think you can spare some time tomorrow?" he asks with a knowing smile, "I feel like a trip to the spa is in order."

John nods, feeling a pleasant warmth settle over him. Slowly, he starts to follow Greg out of the pub. "Of course," he says, knowing that doing anything otherwise would bring about a sigh worse than one aimed at wrong deductions.

With a lazy wave, Greg leaves John in front of the pub. A couple without jackets pass him by as he waits for a taxi. It will get better soon; the weather, and maybe everything else. A cab stops and John slowly climbs in, the address comfortably leaving his mouth: 221b Baker Street. Once again he realizes that he is alone in the cab. John knows the loneliness will never completely fade but somehow, things continue on. But John can't think about that right now, because there is still a case to solve.

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I love broken John stories (and boy, do I love them), I needed to write something about John slowly learning how to cope (and seeing a mend to his relationship with Lestrade which had to get a little tricky after The Fall)
> 
> I would love any comments/critiques on this piece because honestly, it strayed so far from what it was supposed to be (which was another story entirely) and I'm slightly nervous about it. Maybe that's the reason I struggled to write it and almost scrapped it three times. Somehow, it survived , so I hope everyone enjoys it.


End file.
